"Real love!" exclaimed Lydyard, in an incredulous tone. "If the subject were not too serious, I should laugh in your face. No doubt you would marry her, and abandon your design upon the rich heiress, pretty Mistress Mallet, whom old Rowley recommended to your attention, and whom the fair Stewart has more than half-won for you?"
"I would," replied the other, energetically.
"Nay, then, you are more insane than I thought you," rejoined Lydyard, relinquishing his hold; "and the sooner you take the plague the better. It may cure your present brain fever. I shall go back to Parravicin, and the others. You will not require my assistance further."
"I know not," replied Wyvil, distractedly; "I have not yet given up my intention of carrying off the girl."
"If you carry her oft in this state," rejoined the other, "it must be to the pest-house. But who told you she was attacked by the plague?"
"Her father's apprentice," replied Wyvil.
"And you believed him?" demanded Lydyard, with a derisive laugh.
"Undoubtedly," replied Wyvil. "Why not?"
"Because it is evidently a mere trick to frighten you from the house," rejoined Lydyard. "I am surprised so shallow a device should succeed with you."
"I wish I could persuade myself it was a trick," returned Wyvil. "But the fellow's manner convinced me he was in earnest."